


Northern Warrior

by pandizzy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 23:18:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15617214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandizzy/pseuds/pandizzy
Summary: Sansa has a son.





	Northern Warrior

**Author's Note:**

> I think we often underestimate how Sansa would react to having a child. This is my take on what would happen.
> 
> This is focused on Sansa so please ignore Jon.

Sansa feels a sort of giddiness afterwards, a fuzzy feeling that brings a shy smile to her lips. Her body is sore and she can’t walk straight, though she doesn’t find in herself the strength to care about it.

It’s been years since she last felt this way. Before her father’s death, before King’s Landing and before Lady’s death. It’s as if she is that little girl again, smiling more freely and giggling around.

Sometimes, Sansa forgets. Automatically, she places her hand on her stomach, still swollen after just a few days, and when the tattletale little kick on her ribs doesn’t follow, she panics. Crippling and freezing fear, enough to make her curl in herself for just a moment before remembering. The babe is already here.

He is soft and warm. Tormund calls him a loaf of babe, with chubby legs and a sweet face. Sansa can never spend too much time away from him, from her son.

_Brandon._  Father’s death is still fresh on her mind, too painful to name him after Ned and to start the new generation of Starks with the oldest name in their line seemed fitting. Jon agreed and so her son was named Brandon Stark.

They tell her not to get too attached. Children die often, it’s why tradition dictates one can only be mourned after their twelth nameday. Specially at winter. Brandon could very well catch a fever in the next day.

Sansa will make sure that her son survives, though.

His cot is in her chambers, so she can feed him more quickly when he cries at night. Sometimes, she stays awake after he returns to sleep, zealously watching him. Her eyelids are heavy and she yawns at every second, but treacherous thoughts never leave her mind.

_If I stop watching him, he will stop breathing._

One night, he stays awake as well, staring at her with his impossibly big gray eyes and smiling. He likes her. She almost forgets how she is in near tears, wanting to beg him to return to sleep, and smiles back. She strokes a finger down his cheek and his giggles echoes around the room.

Sansa turns to her bed. Jon is still snoring, sprawled over the covers.

“You can’t die,” she tells Brandon, “I need you.”

Carefully, she places her hand behind his soft head and little rump and pulls him to her arms. Brandon sighs, relaxed, and raises a fist to grab a strand of her hair. Weeks have passed since her clumsy state of holding him.

“We will accomplish great things together,” she whispers, rocking him around. “My Brandon, my saviour, my northern warrior.”

_My son._


End file.
